Page 46 of In the Dead of Night

“He likes to sit in the sunshine and fresh air in the morning,” she said cheerfully. “The doctors say it’s good for him, so we sit out here as much as possible.” A small smile lit her mouth when she contemplated Sara and Nick. “Would either of you like a drink? Bloody Mary? Tequila Sunrise?”

“It’s a little early for me, ma’am,” Nick said.

Sara couldn’t take her eyes off the shrunken old man. Until this moment, Blaine Stocker had been a vague threat. Possibly guilty of unspeakable crimes.

The man in the wheelchair wasn’t capable of any of those things. His body was frail and shrunken and bent. The left side of his face drooped slightly. An oxygen tube ran along both cheeks to his nose. But his eyes were the eyes of a much younger man. They burned with intelligence and a cunning that made gooseflesh rise on Sara’s arms. It was as if he were trapped within a body that had failed him.

“Mr. Stocker, we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right,” Sara said.

His eyes landed on her. She nearly winced at the power of his stare. Recognition quivered inside her. She stared, knowing she’d met him at some point in her life, but unable to remember where or when.

An arthritic finger moved and the motorized wheelchair drew closer. The old man gave a minute nod. It was still early in the day, yet Channing walked to the wet bar and poured orange juice and tequila into tall glass tumblers.

“You can use those chairs if you like,” she said, motioning toward two wingback chairs sitting opposite a large mahogany desk.

Nick dragged them to the wheelchair. Sara seated herself and Nick took the other so that they were both facing Blaine Stocker.

“We were wondering if you could help us sort through some information,” Nick began.

The old man’s eyes shifted to Nick. “What…information?” His voice was as rough as a saw chewing through wood. The left side of his mouth didn’t move when he spoke.

“You were a director.” Smoothly Nick handed him a card. “I’ve enjoyed your films over the years. The Falcon at Midnight was my favorite.”

“I liked The Dread,” Sara put in.

The old man’s hand shook as he accepted the card, but his eyes lit up as if someone had flipped a switch. Within the depths of his gaze, Sara saw an odd mix of pride and ego. Because it was apparently difficult for him to speak, he nodded.

Nick continued. “But there were other films, too, weren’t there, Mr. Stocker?”

“What…films?”

Nick removed several stills he’d had made from the snuff film they’d recovered at the mansion. “A…documentary, perhaps.”

The old man’s gaze swept to the stills. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. His lips quivered. His frail body jolted.

“We know about the women,” Nick said.

The old man began to shake. “No.”

Nick displayed the second still. A black-and-white depicting a terrible scene. “You made other films, too, didn’t you, Mr. Stocker?”

“Not me…”

“We have the film. The proof. We also have the notes.”

The old man’s eyes rolled back white. “No…”

Setting her drink on the desk, Mrs. Stocker strode quickly over. “How dare you come into my home and insult my husband?”

“These are his,” Nick said.

Channing Stocker bent to look at the stills. All color bled from her face, but her eyes remained strong. She leveled those eyes on Nick. “I don’t know why you’re here or what you think you know, but I want you to leave.”

Sara reached out to touch her. “Please, Mrs. Stocker, we think your husband may know something about these murders.”

Angrily, the woman shook off her hand. “Get out. Both of you. Now.”

Nick thrust one of the stills at the old man. “Did you murder this woman?” Anger resonated in his voice. “Did you film it?”